Page 125 of A Scot on the Rocks

Spring arrived at Dunarraidh with a great deal of rain, a patch of bluebells beneath the south wall, and the improbable sight of Jamie Campbell standing still long enough for a woman to fasten his collar.

“If ye pull it any tighter, Morag, I’ll be wed and buried on the same day.”

“Then stop fidgeting.”

Olivia heard them from the adjoining chamber and laughed so hard that Sorcha had to pause while fastening the last hook on her gown. It was the blue wool she’d bought at the harbor, altered again for the wedding with neat cream-colored cuffs and a length of fine lace at the neck. She’d considered something grander, then remembered this was the first dress she’d purchased when she began to believe she might have a future in Scotland. It seemed the right one to wear for her wedding.

Her boots were clean beneath her skirts. Jamie had threatened to find her a proper pair of wedding slippers, but she’d only asked if he intended to carry her over every muddy yard in the glen for the rest of her life. He’d considered the proposition rather more seriously than she’d expected.

The castle’s east roof was sound now, and the great hall had been swept and hung with spring greenery. Ewan and Alasdair had repaired the worst of the stair, the villagers had brought flowers and food, and Mairi had supplied a barrel of ale. There was still plenty left to mend, but the chamber where Jamie and Olivia would sleep had curtains, proper shutters, and a hearth that drew well enough to keep the smoke out of their eyes.

Sorcha stepped back and looked her over. “Ye’re a bonny bride.”

Olivia blinked. “Thank you.”

“Your grandmother would be proud of ye.”

That nearly finished her. She’d spoken of Grandma often enough that the women of Dunarraidh had begun to refer to her as though she might walk through the kitchen door with a list of opinions and an apron tied round her waist though she’d had to make up an excuse as to why her grandmother couldn’t be here for the wedding. Olivia wished she could see her today more than she’d wished for anything since the storm.

Morag appeared with a beautiful plaid sash.

“There now, lass. All dressed in Campbell colors. The poor fool hasn’t a chance.”

Olivia laughed, then turned to admire herself one last time in the small looking glass.

The wedding took place in the hall, beneath the roof the entire glen had helped repair. The minister stood before the hearth, and Jamie waited beside him looking handsome enough to make Olivia forget every sensible thing she’d intended to say. He wore a dark coat brushed carefully at the shoulders, his tartan laid over one arm, and the boots Olivia had commissioned from the cobbler as a wedding present. They were excellent boots, though they still didn’t compare to hers. After the doorway had closed, Olivia had burned her modern clothes apart from the boots she couldn’t bear to surrender, unwilling to leave anything so strange for someone to find.

As she came through the doorway, Jamie’s face changed. The mischief softened into a smile that belonged to her alone, and he stepped forward before the minister had quite finished inviting her to his side.

“Ye look beautiful, lass,” he murmured.

“You are the best-looking man in all of Scotland.”

He grinned and took her hand. Around them the hall quieted, save for the fire and the soft rustle of people finding their places. Olivia could see Ailsa pressed between Sorcha and Kirsty, Finlay standing with a walking stick near the door, Ewan grinning beside Alasdair, and Morag watching with an expression that suggested she’d been expecting this outcome since the moment Olivia had arrived.

The minister spoke of fidelity and kindness, of making a household through the ordinary work of living together. Then he asked Jamie whether he would take Olivia as his wife.

“Aye,” Jamie said. He looked at her instead of the minister. “With all my heart.”

When her turn came, Olivia answered clearly enough for everyone in the hall to hear. “I will.”

The minister joined their hands and pronounced them husband and wife. Jamie waited precisely as long as courtesy required before leaning down to kiss her, and the cheering that followed made Ailsa clap both hands over her ears. Olivia laughed into Jamie’s shoulder while he held her close, his arm firm around her waist.

“Mrs. Campbell,” he whispered with evident satisfaction.

They ate until the light faded, danced in the hall beneath the newly mended roof, and listened to the men argue about who had brought the finest whisky. Olivia judged the samples with the solemnity the occasion deserved, though Jamie insisted she was favoring the spirit they’d made together. For once, she admitted he was right.

Two mornings later they carried a small sealed cask to the old tunnel. Jamie had wrapped it in oiled cloth, and Olivia had tucked two carefully stoppered stoneware bottles of their Glenbrae spirit inside before the cooper closed the lid. They placed it in a dry recess beyond the reach of the water that ran along the tunnel floor, hidden behind loose stones that Jamie fitted carefully into place. It might not survive the centuries, and she had no idea whether anyone would ever find it. Even so, the possibility pleased her.

“Do ye think the folk in your time will taste it?” Jamie asked, brushing dust from his hands.

“Maybe. If the tunnel stays dry and nobody digs it out sooner.”

He looked at the stone they’d moved into place. “And if they do?”

“They’ll know someone here made a fine whisky.”

He caught her around the waist and kissed her in the tunnel where she’d first come into his life. For a moment Olivia thought of the Cailleach, of the sound of Boston traffic, and of the wish that had started everything. Then Jamie took her hand and led her back toward the sun.